We Weren't Quite What We Seemed
by lovebirds413
Summary: John has always wondered what happened to make the Holmes brothers so mad at each other. Once he finds out he gets sucked into a whirlwind of political intrigue and family heartbreak. Where exactly does he fit into the Holmes family and just who is this girl that seems so involved in everything?
1. Prologue

**A/N: So here is my next story. I know for a fact that this will take a long time in updating but the prologue is cool by itself for awhile. **

**While the prologue is, the rest of the story is not military focused. Although Murray might make another appearance later on. It's rated T for mild swearing and possible violent situations. John is generally a bad ass so...**

**My little sister is awesome a drew the cover photo for me. Check out my profile for her tumblr information.**

**I do not own these characters, except for a few. But John Watson who is the star is only on loan. **

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**We Weren't Quite What We Seemed**

**By Christine**

_"To slay the dragon, to save the maiden, to hear the angels sing.  
__But we weren't quite what we seemed, no we weren't quite what we seemed.  
In days of old."  
_~In the Days of Old, Emit Rhodes

Prologue 

**Operation Moshtarak**  
**Marjah, Helmand Province, Afghanistan, **  
**July, 2010 **

"Keep your head down solider." Captain John H. Watson, RAMC, currently of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, pressed his hands to the open wound on the man in front of him. "Murray get your arse over here!" he bellowed to be heard over the bullets that filled the air around them. The sound of artillery seemed to come from every direction and though the convoy was all around him it seemed the only bodies that could be seen were the doctor and the broken man he was hunched over.

"Shit, Murray, we're gonna loose him!" The Captain put as much pressure as he could on the wounded leg but he was afraid that if he didn't get serious medical attention soon the man might lose the limb. Soon enough the corpsman came stumbling through the rocky sandy road with his medic bag.

"We're pulling out sir." But Captain Watson ignored his orderly and began to patch up the leg as best he could. Murray, however, continued to plead with his commanding officer about the need to leave. "Sir, we can't hold this ground. We have to leave. The whole unit's returning to base."

Watson fixed the corporal with a glare. The glare had become famous since Watson had first been attached to this brigade. It was a stare that brooked no disagreement, a stern, passionate glare and no one dared to argue with any words that followed it. "Murray this soldier needs medical attention. I am here to give him that. I took an oath. And you," pointing a bloody finger into the chest of the medic for emphasis, "are here to assist me. Gauze."

Nodding solemnly, the corporal silently handed him the needed supplies. The doctor continued to patch up the wounded man as the rest of the company began to retreat. This was supposed to have been a routine drive through. U.S Marines, British and Afghan troops had been present in the Nad Ali district of Helmand – just five miles from the capital – since February in an offensive maneuver against the Taliban. This was difficult to do as many of the local farming population supported the insurgents and the protection they provided for their opium trade. They actually had a kind of alliance which made it very problematic to actually attack. So they drove through towns with a show of force. Effectively it was a kind of stalemate. Not today however. Today Captain John Watson joined the unit drive through, just so he could get a look at some of the towns. Today the insurgents and locals attacked the convoy.

"Doc," came a weak breathy voice from the patient. "No need to talk solider. We have no time for it and you don't have the strength." The patient however insisted and flailed his arms until the doctor grabbed his hands and listened. "Doc," he said taking labored breaths. Watson knew that this had to be important for the man to make such an effort. "House." A sharp breath in. "Girl. Hurt. Trapped." The man was now gasping for air. "Protect," another breath, "her. Protect…"

The Captain's eyes became sharp and narrowed. "What girl? Where?"

The wounded man lifted one of his hands, with much effort, and pointed off to the East then passed out from the pain. Squinting off to the distance at a farmhouse, Watson didn't hear the approach of the U.S. troop leader.

"Captain."

"Lieutenant," Watson answered with a nod.

"We need to move out now that the artillery has stopped. This area is a hotbed for insurgents. It is no longer safe."

"It wasn't safe before, Lieutenant," said Watson as he returned to his doctoring. The Lieutenant decided to ignore the harsh tone of the Captain, recognizing the tension in his superior's shoulders. Apart from his glare Watson was also known for his strong moral opinions and he had long been against the drug trade that flowed through Helmand. He made no effort to hide this opinion, especially from those soldiers who had occasionally indulged in supporting the horrible business with recreational use of the product.

"We will be heading out in five minutes." He paused a moment. "With or without you." Watson only nodded at that and the Lieutenant left to ready the rest of the men and prepare the convoy.

"Murray!" he barked to his orderly who was absent yet again. "Get over here! Give me your hand." He placed the corporal's hand in pace. "Bandage this." Standing up he yelled for another man to bring a stretcher. "Make sure that he gets to the truck," he said to Murray.

The medic looked up to see his Captain checking the cartridge of his SIG. "What are you doing?" After a he was given a Watson glare he added, "Sir."

"As a doctor I took an oath to heal people, in any and all situations. As a soldier I took an oath to protect. There is a girl that needs help. This man," he said gesturing to the patient still on the ground unconscious, "was in severe pain but he took the time to tell me that she was in danger. I am going to see what I can do about his last request."

"Sir?" Murray still looked confused.

Watson sighed. "I'm going to that farmhouse to see what's going on. If I'm not back before the convoy leaves I'll find my own way back."

"Sir –" Murray began but was cut off by Watson's glare.

"This is part of my duty, Corporal, and you will do as I say. Get this man on the truck."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, and no need to mention my detour to the Lieutenant. He already knows not to wait for me." With that Watson holstered his gun and took off at a fast pace to the distant farmhouse. The eerie quite that had come over the area once he reached it was strange. No more bullets whizzing by, even the noise of the convoy seemed distant. He had no idea what to expect, as his patient's description was vague at best, but what he saw in that farmhouse was really beyond everything.

It was dark and completely void of furniture with the exception of one chair in the middle of the room. Tied quite securely to the chair was a girl in Muslim dress. She looked impossibly young with her golden curls spilling out of her undone burka. There were bruises along her left cheek and her lip was split. Her head hung defeatedly with her eyes half closed. She didn't even register his movements in the room until he cursed. "Shit."

Her head jerked up at the whisper and she looked up at Watson in grateful recognition of the language. Quickly he pulled out a knife and moved toward her to undo her bonds. Kneeling in front of her he began slowly cutting through the many layers of rope which secured her.

"Please, you need to leave." Her voice was hoarse from lack of use and water. "Take it easy. I'll bring you with me when I go." Watson continued his methodical process of removing the ropes, trying not to jar her badly bruised wrists. Her accent was British, though he couldn't place exactly where, it had a slight posh tone to it. Watson knew she had absolutely no business being here, beaten and tied to a chair, in Afghanistan.

Taking a few dry swallows as the saliva in her mouth was gone she tried again. "They are coming back. They were just trying to scare away all the soldiers."

"Ah. So you're the reason we were shot at." Watson looked up and smiled at her hoping his warm voice would put her at ease. "It's alright I'll get you out of here. I'm a doctor."

"You have to go," she insisted. Watson continued to reassure her of her freedom and he scanned the room, looking for a better exit as he cut through the last of the ropes around her ankles. Once, at last, she was free they both started as loud noises could be heard from where Watson assumed was a back door. Pulling out his SIG he stood between the coming noise and the girl.

"You are hurt but free. If something happens, run." The girl didn't respond, not even a nod. Watson did hear her sharp intake of breath as voices could now be discerned amongst the noise. It was Dari. He only caught every third word or so but the girl obviously understood as she stiffened in fear. Most likely these were her captors and they were coming back to finish the job they had started. This was not good.

His mind ran through the various scenarios, of escape or possible injury and death. He began to panic slightly. Dammit he was a doctor. And a soldier. As much as he didn't like to inflicted pain it looked like this was going to be a bad day. As the voices came closer he couldn't rightly discern how many people he was about to face.

"How many?" he whispered. When she didn't respond he was afraid she did hear him. "How many?" he repeated.

"F-F-Five," came the stuttered response. Five. He could deal with five. Hopefully. With no backup outside of his gun he took a deep breath as much more than five tall armed men loudly tumbled into the room.

Angry cries broke out at the sight of the soldier with a gun trained on them. Guns raised on all sides and a silent stare off began. Captain Watson stared at them and what looked like poor Afghani farmers stared back at him. They looked like poor Afghani farmers except all of them had AK-47s. Pointed directly at him. It made him think that they weren't really poor Afghani farmers. Drug dealers? Taliban? He didn't know and with his life, and the girl's, on the line he didn't rightly care. They were bad and that was all that was important.

One of the younger looking ones eyed Watson up and down and then spat at his feet effectively ending the silence. "American pig," he growled.

"Oi! I'm British."

"Imperialist scum." The kid spat again and the rest of the men got a little restless and began whispering to each other.

Never lowering his SIG Watson tried to instill some reason into the situation. He gave them a glare. "Listen, you can insult me for donkey's years but get this straight, if you hurt this woman I will blow your brains out."

This announcement just instigated an explosion of anger from the Afghanis and even more insults were thrown however mostly in Dari now so Watson was relieved of the pleasure of actually having to understand them. He threw in a few of his own for good measure.

"_Stop!_" The voice which had only spoken so softly earlier was now loudly, though a little brokenly, cutting through the room in clear Dari. All conversation ceased. "_This man has nothing to do with us. Leave him alone and let him go. I will give you what you want_." Watson blinked as the girl spoke and came to step in front of him. He had no idea what she was saying but her actions were telling him that she was trying to save him. That was not how he worked and he itched to push her behind him again. He refused to lower his gun.

"_We have been trying to get you to talk for days, even shot your body guard and left him for dead. Now you are willing to give us everything. Who is this man?_" The man in the center of the Afghani group spoke with authority and he stepped forward towards the girl. "_Who is he to you_?"

"_Truly he is no one. He came from the convoy in the village. He said he is a doctor_." She looked up the man with pleading eyes. "_Please let him go_." The man slapped her for her apparent impudence. He then turned to Watson and spoke in accented English. "Who are you?"

Watson who was reigning in his rage from that unnecessary slap readjusted his grip and leveled his gun right between his addressor's eyes. "Captain John H. Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I'm a doctor and if you attempt to do anything like that again I will kill you. Very painfully."

The man had the audacity to laugh at the threat and the rage of the Captain was building. Before any further action could take place however, voices were heard outside the house. The terrorists, or drug dealer, or whoever they were began to panic. They were voices speaking English. Shouts and directions were overheard. The house was slowly being surrounded.

The leader let out a curse in his native tongue. "_You liar, you heathen whore! You have alerted the Americans_!" He tried to roughly pull the girl behind him so they could escape with their hostage intact. In the confusion of possible capture he momentarily forgot about Watson, still standing there with his service pistol trained on him. He really shouldn't have underestimated the soldier because without hesitation, the moment the terrorist made a grab for the girl, Watson fired. Close range, dead shot, between the eyes. The results weren't pretty. Watson heard the girl scream and then it was utter chaos. Guns were fired, voices were raised, soldiers spilled into the house from all sides.

Watson stood his ground and fired. Through the disorder, from seemingly out of nowhere, a stray Jezail bullet tore through all the ligaments in his shoulder. He screamed at the pain. And screamed again. In the dizzying commotion that followed he got off a few more shots, though they went wide of their targets. There were too many men and voices surrounding him. He scanned the room for the girl but didn't see her. He stumbled back toward the chair in the center of the room only to find it empty and overturned; the girl was nowhere. Just nowhere. The blood loss made his vision blurry and he was going into shock. He felt the press of people on him and heard a rush of voices among them the eager voice of his corpsmen.

"Captain? Captain? It's me, Corporal Murray. Captain? Captain!? John!?"

There was only one thought that ran through the Captain's mind before he fell to the ground in an unconscious heap. "Dear God, let me live!"

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**A/N: This is my first attempt at action sequences. While this story is filed under adventure and family there will bee touches of romance as well. **


	2. Chapter 1

**Sorry it has been a long time between posting. I did warn you though. :)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but the DVDs...**

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**We Weren't Quite What We Seemed**

"_The king, the pope, they sat and moped, they needed a game to play."_

_~ In The Days of Old, _Emit Rhodes

Chapter One

**London, England**

**221 B Baker Street**

**January, 2013**

"_Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
"Sorry?"  
"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?"  
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know ...?"  
"How do you feel about the violin?"_

"_I'm sorry, what?"  
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock."  
__"__Is that it? We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?"  
"Problem?"  
__"__We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."  
__"__I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street."_

"_You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor."  
"Yes."  
"Any good?"  
__"Very__ good."  
"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."  
"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."  
"Wanna see some more?"  
"Oh __God__, yes."_

"_You don't seem very afraid."  
"You don't seem very frightening."  
"Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"  
"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him…yesterday."  
"And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"  
"Who __are__ you?"  
"An interested party."  
"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."  
"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."  
"And what's that?"  
"An enemy."  
"An enemy?"  
"In __his__ mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his __arch__-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."  
__"__Well, thank God __you're__ above all that."_

"_Good shot."  
"Yes, must have been."  
"Well, __you'd__ know. Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case. Are you all right?"  
"Yes, of course I'm all right."  
"Well, you __have__ just killed a man."  
"That's true, isn't it? But he wasn't a very __nice__ man."  
"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"  
"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie."  
"That's true. He __was__ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"  
"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"_

An onslaught of memories, memories of the beginning of the strange friendship he had had with Sherlock Holmes, rushed upon John as he climbed up the stairs to 221B. It had been a year since he had been there. A year since his life changed all over again. A year since Sherlock's untimely fall. A year without his best friend.

A lot can happen in a year. A place of living can change, a job can be redefined, a psychosomatic limp can return. Mrs. Hudson, dear lady that she is, couldn't understand his need to leave – his need for space away from everything that is, _was_, Sherlock. A fresh start was what he needed. It was what he needed when he got back from Afghanistan and Sherlock had given that to him. Now Sherlock was gone and he needed to start over again. The only reason he was here today was because Mrs. Hudson called him. She had come across some of his things while cleaning, and would he please come and pick them up?

So here he is and it was like stepping into a time machine. Mrs. Hudson kept 221B pristine, everything in the exact place where Sherlock had left. The whole flat looked as if it was waiting for its tenants to return after some weekend case. Except, this time it was Mrs. Hudson across from him drinking tea and not his best friend.

"How's the leg dear?"

"It's still there," was John's sarcastic reply.

"Oh I know how that is," said the lady, "I've got the hip."

John gave a rueful laugh at that turned into a grimace. Damn his leg! Tea time soon ended and Mrs. Hudson went to the shop to replenish her biscuit supply. She left John to go through the box of things she had found, most of the things were useless – left over papers, scribblings really, from his blog drafts, that stupid Union Jack pillow, some magazines. But at the bottom of the box was a set of CDs, all by the same artist. Renata Alkeav. A soprano. These were not his, not that he didn't enjoy classical music from time to time, sometimes listening to Sherlock's violin concertos was the only thing that would calm him out of his PTSD induced nightmares, but he was more of a classic rock kind of guy. Besides, all his music was on his laptop now. He couldn't really remember the last time he bought a physical CD. He took his time flipping through each one.

"These have to be Sherlock's," he said to the room. "Though it is hard to picture him as some kind of fan." He looked up and laughed until he realized he was talking to Billy the skull. "Boy, do I have issues." Turning back to the box he decided to keep his thoughts to himself. Every CD cover had a picture of the girl and John had to admit that she was beautiful, with dark auburn hair and stunning blue eyes. Some of the discs were even autographed.

"_To S, Lyubov' Renata"_

He had never seen them before today; he'd have to ask Mrs. Hudson where she found them. His musings were interrupted by a single ring. _Maximum pressure just under the half-second_, said a memory in his head. "Client," he whispered. Being here at Baker Street was really throwing him off; he could practically hear Sherlock telling him to answer the door. Of course it wasn't really a client, everyone knew that Sherlock Holmes was dead. But he looked out the window, just like he used to, to check on the emotional state of the alleged client. There was no pacing hesitation of the disillusioned lover just a girl and a long black limo. A driver, possibly doubling as a body guard, stood stoic next to the passenger door. He didn't really know what to do. He didn't _do_ those kind of clients anymore. He was strictly a medical doctor now and Sherlock was gone. The bell rang again leaving John no choice but to answer. Slowly he made his way back down the stairs but he was never more surprised in his life (except for when Sherlock threw himself off of St. Bart's) to see none other than Renata Alkaev standing on the steps of 221 Baker Street.

Of course he invited her up to 221B, and of course he made her a cup of tea. It was the polite thing to do after all. She sat there, in the client chair, with a smile on her face and a pleasant nod to his inquiries.

"Thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson." When she spoke her English had a slight accent to it. With a name like Renata Alkaev, John could only assume that she was Russian. "Thank you also for letting me come in. I am sorry to intrude and I know you are probably wondering why I have come here."

Never one to argue with a lady, John gave a noncommittal reply. "I assume you knew Sherlock."

"Yes." Her rejoinder was sharp and John thought she sounded sad. "I only just came in the country; it has been a very long time since I have been here, not since I was a child. I did not however, believe the reports of his death. Reports regarding him are usually greatly exaggerated, you know." John had to smile to himself at this. Reports regarding Sherlock were not usual in any way, he really did do ridiculous things. Showing up to the Palace in his bed sheet sprang to mind. However he let Renata continue without interruption. "I had to come and see for myself if he was truly gone."

"Yes well…" John didn't quite know how to continue after that. Thankfully he didn't have to as his guest continued for him.

"I can see that he is," she said with emotion. "Or was." Her voice stuck and John had to pause so as to not get over emotional himself. This girl must have been some kind of friend to Sherlock. John couldn't really fathom what kind really, because by his own admission, John was Sherlock's only friend.

"Sherlock was a fan of your music." It was the only thing John could think of to break the awkward silence that had descended on them both. What with their tea getting cold and the biscuits left uneaten on their tray, John felt it was his duty to give comfort. "He has all your albums."

She laughed and John was glad. It was better than a sob. "He didn't have much choice in that since I sent all of them to him. But he was a fan of my work and I was of his. I guess you could say that we were fans of each other." She smiled at some memory of her own while John sat there a little confused. She had to be some kind of fangirl; it was the only thing that made sense. Or a crazy stalker. A stalker from a far since she hadn't been to England in sometime. Even if she didn't look like one. If she didn't believe the reports of his death – not to mention the videos of his fall on the news – why did coming here to Bakers Street change her mind?

John did not realize that he had asked this out loud until Renata answered. "I am not a stalker I promise. It is just that videos can be altered and news reports are biased, especially those coming out of London with all the media hysteria about Moriarty and how he was framed, Sherlock was not well liked then. I have been out of the country and only getting the news about him from here was not enough. Baker Street holds the key, it has for him for a long time." Glancing around the room she went on. "Just one look will tell you that, though it has been dusted here it has not been lived in. There is no sheet or dressing gown lying around nor are there any books opened or experiments on the table. I do not smell any leftover fish and chips. Even if he were out these things would remain and he would never move away from Baker Street. But you would. If he were gone."

John could only stare at her straight forward deduction. Her blue eyes bored into his and he was momentarily stunned at how familiar they were. "Amazing." Again he was taken back to that first meeting with Sherlock and the compliment slipped out before he could stop it. The Russian girl had the audacity to blush and that brought John back to himself. He really needed to get out of Baker Street. This is when, well really it would have been way before this, that Sherlock would have interrupted and asked their client to get to the point. John was never really good at that part. But he was on his own today.

"Was there anything else you needed?"

Renata looked back up at John and seemed to hesitate. "I came here to give this to Sherlock." She handed what looked to be a wrapped CD which Renata confirmed. "It is my newest album. Along with tickets to my concert tomorrow night at The Royal Albert Hall. Sherlock told me once that if I ever performed there to be sure he got front row seats." She smiled a small modest smile. "I could not get the very front row but they are good seats. Please come and enjoy the music as a thank you for your hospitality."

Standing, John took the gift with thanks and led his guest back down to her waiting limo. Her driver, a big bald Russian man, gave him a guarded once over, obvious to John's militarily trained eyed he was trying to size him up for a fight, but Renata smiled and waved goodbye as she got in.

Later, once he was back in his own comfortable apartment far away from Baker Street and the avalanche of memories that covered him in the morning, John opened Sherlock's gift from the Russian opera singer. It was indeed a CD – her latest according to her. This one was autographed too.

_"To S, Do Svidaniya, Lyubov' Elise"_

She was telling Sherlock goodbye; it was like she knew she wouldn't be giving this gift to him. John had to pause at this. It was all too weird. In the course of three years since he had first met Sherlock he had never heard of this girl. Not that he kept up with the contemporary classical world at all anyway. But now that Sherlock is dead he finds that Sherlock had a collection of her music, all of her albums – autographed even, and then she appears on his doorstep with one last gift for him. Was Renata the stalking fan or was Sherlock?

John decided that he wouldn't worry about any of that now. Dredging through all those memories of the past today was bound to bring up something unpleasant for him, nightmare-wise that is. He chose to forestall any horribleness by listening to Renata's CD. He fell asleep to the sounds of a truly beautiful voice ringing throughout his apartment. It had a calming effect on his shot nerves rather like the strains of a certain violinist.

It wasn't until much later, the next day even, after John had decided to use the gracious gift from Renata and take Mrs. Hudson to Albert Hall, that he realized there was something off about the autographs on Sherlock's CDs. All of them were signed the same way with the exception of the newest one. As he hopped in a cab that night to collect Mrs. Hudson from Baker Street there was one question running through his mind.

Who is Elise?

The question stuck with him as he settled Mrs. Hudson into her chair. Renata wasn't lying when she said these seats were good. If John had known more about music he would have understood that these were the best seats the Hall had to offer acoustically. His seat mate understood but John was too absorbed in the program handbill to notice anyone settling next to him. After reading through the history of the pieces to be sung he glanced through the English translation of the _libretto_. It seemed that most of the songs would be in Italian but John felt he had done enough prep work with listening to Renata's gift the night before.

He paused in his reading as the orchestra began tuning. The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise and John felt like he was being watched. He turned to find the eyes of this seat mate on him and his brow rose incredulously in response.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?" he said in a loud whisper.

"John." Mycroft's casual tone did not match the wideness of his eyes. It had been sometime since the two men had been in mixed company. In fact it had been a year. "I happen to enjoy music. Renata Alkaev is a truly gifted soprano." Mycroft turned back to the stage for all intents and purposes done with the conversation.

"So you're a fan then." John commented. He couldn't help but needle him a little. "Sherlock was too."

"Yes," Mycroft eyebrows rose exponentially. "I suppose he was. Her brilliance was one of the only things we could agree on."

"Hmm."

"What is that about Sherlock dear?" Mrs. Hudson piped up from the other side of John. But just then then lights dimmed, the maestro walked out and the overture began.

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**Now the story begins. The stage is set and the characters are in position. Let the action begin. **


End file.
